


(whenever you get lost, man) hold my hand

by soft_rains



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Praise Kink, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-14 00:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2171880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_rains/pseuds/soft_rains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>spoilers up to 4x07.</p>
    </blockquote>





	(whenever you get lost, man) hold my hand

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers up to 4x07.

It starts like this: Stiles knows Scott’s body better than his own. Stiles also knows, through extensive experience, that Scott is almost entirely incapable of asking for help in regards to himself and his needs. So Stiles stops using words.  Instead, he watches for the telltale signs of Scott reaching his limits. Enough days in a row with too little sleep and too much blood and Scott’s body will tell Stiles what Scott’s words will not. His shoulders will tense to an angle that makes something in Stiles’ chest cavity _ache_ , his eyes will lose focus, his voice will fall flat, and his spine will slowly start to curl in on itself, like a painting caught fire. It hurts Stiles to see; this stunning masterpiece of a boy going up in flames, but there’s not much he can do because, at the end of the day, the point of ignition is always Scott. He’s forever lighting himself up, whether it’s with a road flare or the guilt that presses insistently against the swell of his ribs, it’s just what Scott does. It allows him to be the light in the dark that everybody needs, but it comes with a price, as all good must. Stiles came to terms with this part of Scott a long time ago; knows that Scott will always, always do the right thing, save the day, be the hero, even if it means dropping the flare; even if it means taking himself away from Stiles. And sometimes, there isn't anything Stiles can do, can only watch as Scott walks away with whoever’s threatening them this week.

But sometimes, between fights for their lives, Scott starts to walk away in the everyday way; pulling away from Stiles’ casual touches, making himself smaller than the space he has a right to occupy, speaking just enough to not worry anybody, and these are things that Stiles knows he can fix. So after a week straight of trying and failing to lure the Benefactor out of hiding and a week of watching the conviction in the set of Scott’s shoulders weight heavier and heavier, Stiles starts planning. He quietly gathers everything he needs, and waits for the right moment.

\--

The right moment never does come.

Two Thursdays after Scott had shown up at his door and repeated to him with steel in his voice what he had promised Deaton and Argent, Stiles sits on his living room couch and watches Scott pick away at the skin of his thumbs. It’s a nervous habit Scott’s always had, but it gets worse with stress, and Scott hasn't stopped the almost rhythmic pattern of it since he started sifting through some of the crime scene photos Stiles’ dad had very generously and very illegally provided them with, half an hour ago. Stiles is pointedly not looking at the gruesome photos of a thus unidentified beta, and is instead studying how tired Scott looks in the evening light when Scott flinches minutely, and absentmindedly brings his thumb to his mouth to clear the small amount of blood that welled up when he broke the skin. It’s the final straw for Stiles, as seeing Scott hurt usually is (whether by Scott’s own hand or whatever big bad they’re fighting that week) and he doesn't even blink before he’s snatching the photos from Scott’s hands and putting them back into the manila envelope they’d been in when Stiles’ father had dropped them on the living room table earlier.

Scott looks rather bewildered, but doesn't do more than arch an eyebrow at Stiles, a sign of how tired he must really be, if he’s not even going to try to put up a fight. He just looks at Stiles and waits for an explanation. Stiles, for his part, doesn't keep Scott waiting, just shuffles closer on the couch until he’s practically hovering over Scott, who now looks decidedly less confused, and more like he’s thinking about putting up an argument about the photos. Stiles stops this thought process before it gets to be real words by gently running the backs of his fingers against Scott’s jaw, up and down in soothing motions until Scott’s eyes close and his shoulders drop just a little, a tell-tale sign that Stiles has won this round, even if Scott might not fully know it yet.

Stiles keeps up the motions, letting Scott’s head lull into the contact, until he knows Scott’s so relaxed that he won’t notice Stiles has moved until Scott’s already right where Stiles wants him; which is how Stiles ends up hovering over Scott, smiling  fondly at Scott’s half-heated glare when he opens his eyes and realizes this for himself.

Scott wiggles slightly, getting more comfortable even as he rasps out: “We should really keep looking at the photos, Stiles, there could be clues about the Benefactor’s identity somewhere in here.”

Stiles hums indulgently under his breath, even as he lowers himself down fully onto Scott’s body. He revels in the slight tremor that he feels go through Scott, knows this is going to be so good for both of them, but especially for Scott; he’s going to do everything he can to make Scott feel good and safe and cared for, because that’s what Scott does for anyone who asks, every day. He suddenly feels an overwhelming need to give back everything Scott has given him, with interest, can’t stop himself from letting one of his hands slip under Scott’s shirt and settle against the warm skin just to feel the pulse of Scott’s heart. He strokes his thumb back and forth and smiles like the cat that caught the canary when it makes Scott’s breathing stutter under his hand, his insides feeling like something liquid when the action makes Scott smile so sweetly at Stiles that he has to get his lips on Scott before he does something ridiculous, like start crying over how perfect his best friend ( _alpha, lover, soul mate_ ) is.

He gets right into Scott’s space, letting his lips speak for him where he knows his inadequate words would fail, and wipes the smile from Scott’s face with his lips and teeth and tongue. They stay like this for a while, just existing in each other’s space, sharing breath and touch until Stiles feels the rest of the tension Scott’s been carrying drain away. Only then does Stiles move his ministrations  to Scott’s neck, trailing warm, lingering kisses against the soft skin of Scott’s throat, and when Stiles kisses over’s Scott’s adams apple, with just a hint of teeth, a small cut-off gasp tumbles from Scott’s lips and makes Stiles feel positively predatory, despite how very human he is.

Scott tries to swoop in for another kiss, but Stiles ducks away and scrapes his teeth just under Scott’s ear, earning him a soft, needy sound that goes straight to Stiles’ dick, and he chuckles lightly, his voice already sounding thicker and honey-like when when he practically coos into the shell of Scott’s ear: “It’s okay, I’m going to take such good care of you, Scotty, I’m going to make you feel so good,  just let me, hmm? ”

He pulls back just in time to see Scott nod ever so slightly, and Stiles can feel himself smiling with every single one of his teeth before he leans back in to take Scott’s lips with his, pouring all the tenderness he feels for this amazing boy into it, letting it build until the little space left between them is filled with breathless heaving and soft, pleasured gasps. Scott kisses Stiles like he’s claiming sanctuary, has since the first time Stiles pressed his chapped lips against Scott’s in the wake of the Nogitsune, and it never fails to drive Stiles crazy; he always kisses back like he could somehow shelter Scott from the storm of their lives, like he could keep Scott safe and happy if he kissed him just right.

While his mouth is otherwise occupied by scraping his teeth against the the underside of Scott’s jaw, Stiles’ hands pop the button on Scott’s jeans and drag the zipper down slowly enough that Scott lets out a breathy _please_ when Stiles bites that smooth, tan skin. It’s gets to Stiles, how eager and responsive Scott always is, and he has to lean back to collect himself, to decide exactly how he wants to proceed. He hadn't planned to do this tonight, but he can see how much Scott needs this, now, and he can recognize that he needs it just as much, needs to show Scott how much he cares about him, how much he wants to spend the rest of their lives making Scott feel safe and happy and loved.

He spends a few minutes running his fingers across the plane of Scott’s chest, stopping to rub and pinch Scott’s nipples until he can see them starkly against the dark blue of Scott’s henley, hard and puffy. Normally, Stiles would get his mouth on them, really make Scott squirm, but he recognizes the henley as Scott’s go-to comfort shirt, the one that’s been made the perfect softness through repetitive washing.  And this is about comfort, about making Scott feel secure in the instability of their everyday lives, even if only in the time they spend like this, so Stiles leaves it. Plus, it’s not like he hasn’t always found Scott to be  especially devastating in a henley.

While he doesn’t take the shirt off, he does slide down the trunk of Scott’s body and push it up just enough to get his mouth on the eighth world wonder that is Scott McCall’s six pack.  As his tongue traces a path across the skin of Scott’s torso, he can’t help but return to the thought of Scott being a work of art. So sad to watch burn, but so awe inspiring to admire, especially up close like this, where he can get his hands all over the distinctive landscape that is Scott. He loves it like he’s never loved anything else; being like this, existing only in the space between Scott’s quiet pants and beautiful moans, is addicting in a way Stiles can’t even begin to explain. He craves Scott in a way that would scare him, if he didn’t know that the sentiment was fully returned, and the more he reflects on his desire, the more he just wants to make Scott _beg_.

He also wants to make this last, really does, but when Stiles sinks his teeth into the dip just above the line of his jeans, Scott’s back arches off the couch and he makes a high, cracked noise that sets Stiles’ blood on fire. Before he’s even aware he’s doing it, Stiles has pulled Scott’s jeans and boxers off and is reaching between Scott’s legs to wrap his hand around the hard length of him. He works Scott over for a few minutes, loosening and tightening his grip, swiping his thumb over the head of Scott’s cock, using his own precome to stroke him off, intermittently biting at the rich skin under his mouth,  until Scott’s trembling   _just so_ and oh, that won’t do, Stiles has far too many things he still wants to do to this gorgeous boy.

He lets go of Scott and pulls back to get a good look at his handiwork, has to, because Scott always looks _delectable_ when he’s like this; pink flush across his cheeks, chest heaving, eyes dark and liquid under eyelashes dipped low from pleasure. He’s exquisite, utterly perfect, and suddenly Stiles knows exactly how he wants to take him apart.

He gently grips Scott’s wrists in his hands and pushes himself off the couch, bringing Scott with him. Scott’s lips are swollen from both him and Stiles biting at them, and his eyes are glazed and wanting, and he’s not saying anything, trusting implicitly that wherever Stiles puts him, whatever Stiles does to him, he will give Scott what he needs. It makes Stiles think for the trillionth time: _anything, i would do **anything** for you_. This is simple fact; Scott is the sun and Stiles orbits him always, helpless against the quiet awe he feels for Scott in moments like this.

None of this translates into words because Stiles’ throat is closed around the sheer _volume_ of emotion that wants to pour out of him. It doesn’t bother him, though; he knows Scott knows, knows Scott reciprocates. If there’s one thing they’ve always been sure of, it’s each other. Instead of trying to find the right combination of words that would express these things, Stiles pulls Scott along to the side of the couch. His alpha goes pliantly, loose-limbed and finally starting to get out of his head. He turns Scott around and molds himself against his back, his hands coming around to cup Scott’s collarbones. It’s forever surprising him; how big his hands are spread against Scott’s shoulders, how such a small, unassuming frame can hold so much power, how someone so strong can be so gentle.

Stiles uses the leverage of his new position to bend Scott over the arm of the couch, where he immediately tucks his head against one of the scattered throw pillows. The way he goes without resistance, the mighty true alpha handing himself over, offering his submission so willingly, makes Stiles’ mouth water, and oh, he is going to enjoy this.

He really wishes he had their cuffs on-hand, does so love the look of the thick, soft leather around Scott’s wrists, but he’s almost sure they’re sitting somewhere in Scott’s room, tossed aside in favor of aftercare. It’s okay though, Stiles is the one who has a back-up plan for everything, orgasms not excluded. He gets his hands under Scott’s biceps and pulls his arms back, slowly caressing the length of them, until he reaches his wrists and crosses them behind Scott’s back, holding them there with one hand, while he drops to his knees and uses the other to slowly spread Scott’s cheeks. He can feel Scott tense, waiting for him to do something, anything. Ever cruel to be kind, Stiles just lets his breath ghost over Scott’s hole for a not insignificant amount of time. He stays like this until he hears a muffled plea, and something that sounds vaguely like his name, before closing the distance to swirl his tongue around the the rim. Stiles can feel Scott’s hands ball into fists, but he doesn't struggle, for which Stiles lays a quick kiss against pucker, making Scott shudder from head to toe. The movement breaks any pretense of control Stiles had, and he dives in to lick a broad stroke over Scott’s hole and down to his balls, each of which he lays a wet kiss on.

He’s always loved rimming Scott, but this is somehow different, somehow more than the other times they've done it. Maybe because it’s always been foreplay up until now, and tonight is the first time Stiles intends to make him come from this alone. Maybe it’s how much he wants to take some of the weight from Scott’s shoulders, how much he wants to make Scott feel beautiful and warm, safe and cared for. He thinks he must have said that last part out loud, because Scott muffles aloud moan into the pillow, and oh, that just won’t do.

He calls Scott’s name, soft, but firm, and gets no response. He can’t see Scott’s face, but the angles of his tension, the long lean lines of him tensed and trembling so faintly Stiles could almost miss it (if he weren't addicted to the sight) lead him to believe that Scott is already starting to lose himself in it. Which was objective, and exactly what he wants, but he also wants to hear Scott; he wants to be able to pick out all the nuances of every sound Scott makes, from high, desperate keens to his rich, low moans.

“Scott?” he ventures, “Scotty, you’re doing so great, you’re always so perfect for me, but I want to hear you. Can you move the pillow for me?”

Scott whimpers quietly and ruts once against the arm of the couch, but doesn't verbally respond, nor does he move his face from the pillow. Stiles waits a few more seconds, and when he doesn’t get a response, lands a light smack on the swell of his right cheek. This sends Scott rocking forward and then shoving back into his hand, a non-verbal ‘more’ that Stiles is quite familiar with. The gesture makes something inside him burn, but he knows how to be patient, even if it’s only in this context. He wants this to be the one place Scott feels utterly safe in expressing himself, wants Scott to know that he doesn't have to hide, or reduce himself, not here, not with Stiles, not ever.

“Please, Scott? I just want  to hear every one of of those pretty noises,” he entreats, hand smoothing across the cheek he just slapped, “You’re so beautiful like this, Scott, let me hear you.”

This seems to do the trick, as he hears a bit of shuffling, followed by a soft _okay_. The hushed affirmative brings out one of those smiles that Stiles is helpless against; the warm,  fond one he knows makes him look like a lovesick idiot, but is completely uncontainable when faced with just how _much_ he loves his best friend. He’s sort of thankful Scott can’t see his face, because he lives to tease Stiles about those smiles, gets some ridiculous pleasure from seeing how badly he can make Stiles blush.

“Good boy,” Stiles encourages, petting his flank softly, and then gives Scott what he wants.

He keeps his eyes on Scott’s cheeks, watching them slowly pink up under his ministrations.  He’s forever fascinated by how Scott’s body reacts to him, all the wonderful things it can do in response to Stiles’ touch. The urge to lock Scott in his bedroom until he discovers each and every one of them never really goes away, but he manages to restrain himself most of the time (if staring blatantly at your partner’s amazing ass counts as restraint, anyway).

Each smack makes more delicious noises fall from Scott’s lips, like he’s so desperate to breath Stiles in that he doesn’t care what comes out on the exhale, and Stiles loves _loves_ this boy.

“Look at you, you’re taking it so well, Scotty,” he praises, planting soft, reverent kisses against the burning red of Scott’s cheeks, “You’re always so good for me, no one else could ever compare. Oh god, Scott, you're just so _good_.”

He chases each kiss with words like: _stunning, perfect, gorgeous, amazing, sweet, oh you are so **sweet** for me Scotty._

By the time Stiles gets back to his original goal, Scott is letting out soft gasps in response to nearly every touch of his lips, and he only sounds more wrecked as Stiles starts to really work him over. He alternates between long, firm sweeps of his tongue across Scott’s hole, and planting kisses as gentle as he can make them across Scott’s cheeks, the back of his things, the base of his spine, any place he can get his lips on.

He loses track of time, keeps going and going, determined to see Scott open up,  just for him. He loves that all those wonderful, delicious noises belong to him and him alone, wants to hear them so long and so loud that he dreams of them when his head hits the pillow later. And he must be doing something right because Scott keeps getting louder, self-awareness fading away entirely when he’s so close to coming. And it’s not just Scott’s voice bringing Stiles so close to edge of coming himself; he closes his eyes for a moment and listens to the slick, obscene sounds of his tongue swirling, then pushing in. Stiles has spit on his chin and cheeks from staying pressed close and working Scott over so thoroughly and he loves it. He loves how messy it is, how filthy it looks when he teases the just tip of his index finger into Scott and he _howls_.

Scott’s wrists are shaking in his grip and the alpha calls out in a low, scratchy voice, “Please, Stiles, please can I? I need to- oh _fuck_ ,”

Stiles works his tongue in along side the tip of his finger, not going particularly deep with either, due to the unfortunate lack of lube, but there would be time for that later. Right now, he’s just focused on taking Scott apart, giving him what he needs. He contemplates reaching a hand around to stroke Scott off, but the thought of Scott coming untouched is too tempting, so he redoubles his efforts, thrusting his tongue and finger in and out in a steady, punishing rhythm, his face going hot with how Scott’s moans have turned into short, needy keens. It only takes a minute, maybe a little more, before every line in Scott’s body goes taught, and he lets out a long, drawn out cry of pleasure that Stiles thinks was supposed to be his name. He keeps going, working Scott through his release, before he lets go of Scott’s wrists  and starts gently rubbing at them, as he climbs to his feet.

Stiles has barely found his balance before Scott turns in his grip and chases his lips like a dying man chases water. Stiles is so turned on at this point that he honestly can’t tell up from down. He just wants to stay here, in this embrace, drowning in how good Scott’s lips feel against his own. Scott wastes no time in getting a hand down Stiles pants, stroking him just the way he knows will make Stiles lose it in no time at all. It’s almost pathetically quick, can’t be more than a minute or two before Stiles grinds himself against Scott like he could climb inside of him and stay there forever, and comes across Scott’s knuckles with a broken shout.

The two of them stand there, wrapped around each other, existing separately from the rest of the universe, losing themselves in lingering kisses and affectionate touches, until their breathing has more or less evened out, and both their brains have relatively come back online. Scott pulls away from his lips to rest their foreheads together, eyes fluttering open after a few moments. He gazes at Stiles with so much tenderness and care that Stiles has to look away, else he risks tearing up on the storm of emotions Scott stirs up in him. Stiles grabs some tissues from the table beside the couch and wipes at Scott’s hands, careful and reverent, and hopes the action translates the things that he can’t quite put into words. He thinks he’s at least partially successful because Scott smiles at him so brightly that Stiles thinks he’s going to be blinded by it for an irrational second.

“Dude, what’s your dad going to say about the come stains on your couch?” Scott asks, not looking half as nervous about the prospect as he normally would, making Stiles preen internally on a job well done.

Stiles laughs, bright and loud, and just so, so happy to hear joy in Scott’s voice again.

“C’mon dude, what do you think slipcovers are for?”

Scott rolls his eyes and pushes him onto the couch, following soon after and burying his face in Stiles’ neck.  Stiles grabs the quilted blanket lying across the back of the couch and throws it haphazardly across their bodies, just calculated enough to make sure everything’s covered on the off chance that his dad swings back around before the end of his shift. Scott presses a little kiss against Stiles pulse point in thanks and is out like a light in a few minutes.

Stiles can’t help but slip away after him, gazing fondly at the small, contented smile tugging at the corner of Scott’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> i can't write smut, it is a law of the universe. no matter how much i try it just turns into vaguely explicit fluff. sorry guys.
> 
> based off of this post [this post](http://hufflepunkscott.tumblr.com/post/94600417694/sciles-praise-kink)
> 
> also, i suck at the whole editing thing so just drop a comment if something's fucked up and i'll fix it.


End file.
